Out of Bounds (The Summer Games #2)(53)

“You should,” I said, measuring out a volume of sugar. “Ask to borrow a cup of sugar.”

“What is it with Americans and sugar?” he bellowed, laughing deeply. “Erik suggested the same thing. You’d think there was a shortage!”

I smiled.

“Do you think she’s married?”

“I’m not sure. She lives alone.”

“How do you know that if you haven’t introduced yourself?”

He stammered. “W-well, my dog enjoys sniffing her azaleas. Sometimes he lingers there and I sort of—”

“You spy on her!” I filled in for him.

“No, no, not spying. Observing.”

“Well if you won’t ask for sugar, you should offer it. You could take her some cookies or something.”

“Cookies?”

“Yes. Cookies. Or meatballs. Don’t they have those in Sweden?”

I was teasing him, but he didn’t mind. We’d become fast friends.

“I guess I could pick up some cookies at the shop around the corner. They have these buttery ones I like.”

I frowned. “You should make them yourself. She’d like that.”

He tutted. “I haven’t used the oven in ages. I doubt they’d turn out edible.”

“What is it with you and your grandson? Does everyone in your family have something against kitchens?”

As if on cue, the door to the kitchen opened and the devil himself strolled inside, t-shirt stuck to his broad chest, sweat dripping down his biceps. He was breathing hard and eyeing me with a furrowed brow as he dropped his cell phone on the kitchen counter. He was in pursuit of water, I think, when he caught sight of his house phone against my ear and paused.

“Time’s up,” he said, still catching his breath. “Wait, who are you talking to?”

“I have no idea how to bake, of course,” his grandfather admitted, continuing on with our conversation, oblivious to the tornado that had just rolled inside on my end of the line. “I think I’ve got a dusty recipe book lying around somewhere.”

“Brie.” Erik sliced across the kitchen, trying to pry the phone from my hand. “Hang up.”

“Is that Erik?” Niklas asked, happy to hear trickles of his grandson’s voice through the receiver.

“Yes. He just got home.” I turned and held a finger up to Erik. His eyes widened in shock and I knew I had a minute, maybe two before he went off the rails.

“Well I suppose you should put him on, and I’ll ask for his opin—”

A loud dial tone cut off his sentence and when I turned, I saw Erik standing at the wall with his hand covering the wall mount, having ended the call for me.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked, tossing the phone at him. He caught it without trouble and dropped it back onto the mount with a flick of his wrist. “Now he’s going to think I hung up on him.”

“Why were you talking to my grandfather?”

I turned back to the oven and bent to check on the croissants. Fortunately, they looked done.

“The phone kept ringing while you were gone and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t an emergency.”

“And then what?”

I opened the oven door and pulled out the croissants. They smelled divine, warm and flaky and golden brown.

“Brie,” Erik demanded, pissed that I was ignoring him.

“And then I talked to him.” I turned to shoot him a glare over my shoulder. “I don’t understand what the big deal is. Unlike you, he seems to actually like me.”

The phone rang again, piercing the silence with its shrill sound. Erik groaned and pulled it off the wall. I didn’t have to listen long to know it was his grandfather calling back.

“No. I can’t put her back on,” Erik answered, turning toward the mount. “She’s just leaving.”

I hid my smile.

“I’m not kicking her out. She has to go get ready for practice. She’s an Olympian, remember? It’s what they do.”

With my back turned to Erik, I slid the croissants onto a platter, plated a few for him (though he didn’t deserve their flaky goodness), then scrubbed the dirty dishes in the sink with lightning speed. Erik wanted me out of his space and I didn’t want to lose oven privileges—though by his reaction, I feared taking his grandfather’s call had already ruined any chances of him letting me back into his house any time this century. With the supplies gathered into my arms supporting a precarious croissant tower on top, I rushed out of his kitchen as fast as I could.

He was still speaking on the phone as I slipped outside. I walked slowly back to the guesthouse, realizing that before he’d stormed in and ruined it, I’d had a very relaxing morning. Talking to his grandfather while I baked had helped clear my head, and best of all, I still had an hour before practice—plenty of time to sit and enjoy the fruits (carbs) of my labor over a cup of coffee.





Later that night, while I was brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed, Lexi knocked on my bathroom door and told me I had a package waiting for me out on the front porch. I scrunched my eyebrows, confused. I wasn’t expecting anything from my mom. She had the address to Erik’s house, but that was really only so she would be able to point investigators to the most likely location of my body after Erik killed me.